these small hours
by shiny happy fits of rage
Summary: She isn't whooping out loud for joy because it is three in the morning in a hospital, but that feeling of shouting with happiness because there's nowhere else it can go but out is there, resting comfortably in a place in between her heart and her throat. Prompt #4532 - wheelchair


**for far more regular updates/other YJ related content check out my tumblr, iartemisswally**

* * *

A mirror passes her on her right, and it is a shiny, fleeting reminder that there is something of her to be reflected, that she is still a physical being and not a flying, golden dream. If she had time to look into it, she might have seen the pity in her situation, but she's moving too fast and laughing too hard to think much about it, anyway.

Wally skids to a halt at the end of the hallway, his sneakers squeaking against the linoleum, and Artemis hiccups as her back slams into the leathery back of the wheelchair. She stuffs her face into the crook of her elbow, wheezing as she unsuccessfully tries to smother her laughter. It echoes through the empty graveyard shift hallways of the hospital, sort of like the way a yellow umbrella stands out against the cloudy, vapid greys and blacks that were Gotham City.

"All right, what next?" demands Wally from over her shoulder. "Back down the hallway again? Or maybe – and this is just a _maybe_ , because you might not be up to it – we could try the _Extreme Course_."

She snorts, twisting around as much as she could (her cast bumps and scratches painfully against her naked ankle, but it's worth it). "I'll have you know, _sir_ , that I am a sixteen time Olympic gold medal _champion_ in the Wheelchair Extreme Course."

In the faint glow of the dim fluorescent lights his eyes widen. "You're _that_ Artemis Crock? Wow, I had no idea. You're my hero. Will you take a picture with me? Can you sign my forehead? Would you mind –"

"Give me something more difficult," she says, cutting him off.

A furrow appears in Wally's brow as he puts on his best thinking face (in real life however he has no thinking face; for him there is problem then solution, sight then realization, never an in-between). "It's not _technically_ allowed in this country, due to the fact that it is just far too _awesome_ ," he says, "but the French Olympic wheelchair team trains with something they like to call _Ultime_ _Extrême Cours_."

Poor French, as usual. Nevertheless, Artemis gasps in mock surprise. "The _Ultimate_ Extreme Course? Wally, I'm advanced, but not _that_ advanced. Can I really handle –"

"Damned if you can't," says Wally. He is suddenly gripping the handle of the wheelchair with taut knuckles and his voice is fierce, and 9:28 PM earlier that evening isn't so far away anymore. "You're Artemis Crock, you can do anything."

She doesn't bring up how four hours ago, Artemis Crock could do precisely nothing, was capable of nothing else but screaming, a crack borne of her own body ringing through her ears like a gunshot. She'd laid in the dirt, covered in rubble and remainders of a ceiling, choking back sobs and shouting in her stupid voice for someone to help her until they eventually had, and Kid Flash had carried her all the way to the closest hospital. In the present, she stares at Wally and their game and their banter are a little bit lost. She whispers, "Show me."

With that, he pivots the wheelchair around, and off they go, racing down the hallway not exactly at Kid Flash speeds but certainly at top Wally West speeds. Every few seconds he jerks the wheelchair, or he turns it back around and they head back the other way, and she isn't whooping out loud for joy because it is three in the morning in a hospital, but that feeling of shouting with happiness because there's nowhere else it can go but out is there, resting comfortably in a place in between her heart and her throat. She's aware of her broken leg but not in the way one is supposed to be three hours after breaking it. She's less of aware of it than she is of him, anyway, and of herself, and of the breeze he made for her to whip her face delightfully, and he skids to a halt again –

She falls out. He stopped too quickly and the momentum this time is too much for her to resist and she falls out, onto the tile, a half a laugh still in her throat. Her landing isn't rough – mostly her elbows take it, and there will be a bruise or two, but in the grand scheme of things, what's a bruise anyway? – but she does bump her bum leg against the ground, and she gasps, choking on the sharp pang in her leg.

"Shit!" Wally falls to his knees at her side. "Shit, shit – oh, God, Artemis, I'm so sorry, are you okay? _Shit_ –"

"Fine," she hisses, slowly propping herself up. His hands reach out to steady her and she grips his hand, mostly his thumb, as she pulls herself into an awkward sitting position. "Really. I am."

He shakes his head. "Shit. I'm such an idiot. I shouldn't have –"

"You _should_ have," she says. "You had to."

"Are you –"

" _Wally_." She takes his face in her hands (twisting over on her side a bit uncomfortably, but he's worth it). "You're such a goon. You're the only person in the entire world who would wheel me around the hospital at one in the morning in a wheelchair to make me happy. Please don't apologize for that, okay?"

He doesn't nod but he breathes in, breathes out. "Okay." And it is. Her leg itches and won't be normal for weeks, and her mom is going to cry when they bring her home, and they'll never let her even onto the Bio-Ship for who knows how long, but everything is really, truly, okay.


End file.
